The thunder last night woke me as it rolled off the Himalaya and down into the Pokhara Valley. I thought at first that it was someone on the rooftop outside my door and I scurried over to my door and bolted it. Man I was feeling flighty, not sure how I mistook thunder for people on a metal staircase…. And it is still raining like mad here, hasn’t ceased for the last 8ish hours, and there is no sign of it letting up in the near future.

This morning Tumara one of the office girls at EWN told me that during the monsoon season the thunder practically shakes the earth with its power and force. Other than the two big booms last night the sky has been silently letting down a torrent of rain. On the bright side though it means that when it lets up the sky will be clear of smog for a little while which will be a nice change.

However at the moment the rain makes everything feel close and its cold and dark. The power is going to go out shortly and the internet hasn’t been working all day, which made me miss my skype date with my mom. No power and no internet makes the rest of the world feel distant and obscure from my vantage point in western Nepal. It would be different I suppose, if I were out trekking but I am in fact in the third largest city in the county.

I spent all morning writing reference letters for some of the girls who are applying for an Oxfam International Youth Program. It sounds like a pretty unique opportunity that would really benefit the girls if they were able to get into it. It was a wee bit odd for me to sit down and try to write a letter as though I were Lucky Chhetri, took me a little while, but when she read it she seemed pleased.

I am really grateful that I have something substantial to work on right now. I was worried that once the main training program was over I was going to be bored. Not the case. And….(drum roll please)….I have an English class this afternoon! Hooray! I had been told that those were over, but turns out that ten girls are currently living in the hostel and they want to learn more. So I am going to begin teaching in the afternoons, starting today. Wish me luck! I’m not too sure that I will make a great teacher but at the very least I speak English, and I suppose that is what matters.

My stomach just started to growl telling me that it is time for some good ol’ dal bhat with the family. I’ll keep you posted on the English lessons!

Some people have been asking what the house looks like that I am staying in so here are a few pictures. Not great ones but here you go.

This is Gary walking down the drive way of the Chhetri Mahal!

This is the view I have off the right side of my roof/deck. Not to shabby.

Here is the blog I wrote…a week ago at this point, that I know you have all been eagerly awaiting. So sorry it took so dang long to post. I had more than a few technical difficulties, the least of which being there is only about two hours of power a day in Nepal. Craziness I know. None the less I have procured a blog for your reading enjoyment!

January 30, 2010
Yesterday I crawled out of bed at the lovely hour of 5:30am with the intent of climbing up a rather steep and long hill to Sarangkot. A small town up the mountain from Pokhara. A place where I was hoping I would be able to see the Himalaya. As I shlumped (this for the record is a new word, a combination between shlepped and slumped) my way outside my droopy sleep filled eyes sprang open at the scene before me. A full moon (and in Nepal a blue moon as well) hung over the lake, Fewa- a huge mountain lake that in part characterizes Pokhara. It’s huge golden orb created a path of light, that lead directly to me across the lakes still water. It was my own personal invitation to waltz up to heaven. I have to admit it was tempting to test my luck and stroll out onto the lake, onto that carpet of light, and see what would happen.

However instead of sending myself into a slimy and watery grave I just pulled out my camera in an attempt to capture the moment. In looking back through the pictures I have come to the conclusion that I failed miserably. The thing about photos is that no matter how good of a picture I take (and I truly didn’t get any good ones) I can’t capture how I feel. I (and not to say that other and better photographers can’t do this) am unable to really express the awe that moment instilled in me. I felt like the only person in the world. Nepal had yet to wake up, and everything was still silent. The land seemed to be catching its last moments of peace before women stoked sleeping fires back into life and and men begin gracing the world with their not so lovely bodily function noises. I swear I have never in my life had a more rude awakening than listening to numerous Nepali men clear out their noses and throats at six in the morning. As Gary put it, there is no need to worry about me coming home with a boyfriend.

Eventually I had to wrench myself away from standing agape staring at the moon and begin the climb up to Sarankot. And let me tell you it was beautiful….but also quite steep. I am still feeling the effects of it in my legs a full day later. From the top, Matchu Putchary and the Anapurnas filled the sky, I fell in love with them all over again. There just isn’t anything quite like standing at the base of the tallest mountain range in the world. It makes sense why people have revered them as Gods through out history. There is just no mistaking who is more powerful and who will last the longer, the mountains or humans.

Standing there gazing up at some consider one of the Gods greatest creations I, possibly for the first time in my life, not only appreciated them for their awesome power and beauty but I also had the desire to climb them. With all things in life we must decide if we are doing something because we are told/asked/encouraged to or because we want to. Well I have officially decided I want to be a mountain not because I want to conquer them but because I respect them. And I also know I could learn so much about myself from being in them. I believe ultimately that is why people are drawn to mountains, for inspiration and for soul searching. We all hope that maybe they can shed some light on our lives and help us to understand who we really are.

Sorry to get so philosophical on you. The pollution appears to be getting to my head. It is pretty astonishing how smoggy it is here. In fact it scares me a little that the locals walk around with air filter masks on. When did we let the world get like this? And how much longer can people live in these conditions before something is done about it? I guess in part that is why I am here. To see what people and specifically the Chhetri sisters are doing to improve the world. Mother Theresa said, “It is unlikely that any one of us will do great things, but we can all do small things with great love.” This is my aim while in Nepal. To do many things with great love.

For starters I apologize that I do not in fact have a written piece for you, I had a bit of a technical difficulty. However I do have 15 splendid and beautiful pictures for you! Courtesy of Nathaniel Wilder, professional photographer (Popparatzi. And let me guess I spelled that word wrong, oh well) and friend.

You can also check out Nathaniel’s blog at http://ngwphotography.blogspot.com

Namaste

It took me a solid four days of traveling to arrive in Pokara Nepal but I am finally here! This may end up being the world’s shortest blog post because I am so very drained and in need of sleep right now, that I don’t actually think I can write anything worth reading at the moment. However, this is a promise that I will be writing in the next two days, and if I can work it out I will also be posting photos. I climbed up a wee bit of a hill today (2500 ft) and from the top I got a spectacular view of Matchu Putcheray and the Anapurnas. My breath was quite literally taken away, and I fell in love with them all over again. With peace, Jess.

It was already dark as we pulled our truck off the road and shut down the engine. I ceased reading aloud and looked over at my dad and recognized the same exhaustion in the set of his shoulders that I was feeling. I reluctantly opened my door to begin unloading our gear, and was shocked at how cold it felt. I had grown overly accustomed to the comfortable interior of the car, but an acute happiness filled me nonetheless.

We drug our cots out from underneath the mountain of climbing gear and quickly set them up underneath a cottonwood tree. I threw out my sleeping bag and bounced from foot to foot, trying to keep warm as I waited for it to floof up. Once I deemed it ready, I crawled into my red cocoon and mumbled a goodnight to my dad as my eyelids drooped and I slip quietly off into the real of dreams.

I woke up in the morning to the smell of Blackberry Sage tea and found a steaming mug being offered me. It took me a second to register where I was and a grin cracked my face, as I accepted the cup from my dad. The morning was a blur from there on out. Lyrics from the Weepies waft through my memory and flashes of ropes, water, harnesses, and pro being carefully sorted into packs.

It took us two long arduous hours to scramble up the 2,000-foot sand dune to reach Castleton Tower, our destination, and the whole reason we had spent all of yesterday driving from south central Colorado out to Moab. Moab is the hub of Utah’s climbing, boating, and mountain biking, and although we enjoy all those sports, we were there to climb.

I peered up at the 800-foot spire of sandstone looming above me and felt small and more than a little crazy for wanting to climb it. The route we were going to attempt was a perfect hand crack running from the bottom to the top. Our guidebook informed me it was one of the classic climbs of the desert. I tried hard not to let my nerves get the better of me as I pulled on my banana yellow climbing shoes and wrapped my hands with tape in the hope that I wouldn’t shred them to pieces when I jammed them into the rock.

My dad looked me carefully in the eye and asked if I was ready. I realized that yeah, yeah I was ready. In fact I was stoked. I had been training for months for this climb, doing laps on the crack in a nearby rock gym. He shot me a quick smile and with that headed up, methodically and gracefully, moving his hands and feet in harmony with each other. It wasn’t long before I could no longer see him as he disappeared up and into the tower. I had to rely entirely on the feeling of the rope in my hands to know if he was okay or not.

The rope became taught at my waist as my dad finished pitch one and it was my turn to climb. I experienced a brief moment of panic when it crossed my mind that I may not actually be capable of climbing this. At that point though I didn’t have an option. I couldn’t just walk away and leave my dad stranded a couple hundred feet off the ground. I stepped up to the rock, sucking up my fear. I slotted my left hand into the crack and wriggled it around until it felt just right. And doing the same with my left foot I began to climb. The rock was gritty with worn pieces of stone and loose sand. Battered by the wind, the tower was slowly getting worn down over the years. The rock felt good, almost alive as I moved up and over it. My fingers became numb from the cold but I didn’t care. I felt so vibrant, quivering with energy. I knew then that this was something I truly loved, and that I was not just there to please my dad. I could have stayed in that moment forever. Unfortunately, time does not stand still for mortals and thirty minutes later I was looking into the blue eyes of my dad and it was time for pitch two.

Climbing demands an enormous amount of trust between two people, and if all goes well it creates an unbreakable and unique bond. I realized this as I sat in a hanging belay, anchored to the rock by some well-placed gear and a few cam straps, and once again watched my dad disappear up and around the corner.

Wind whistled through a small fissure that ran clean through the tower, creating an eerie sound. I could see a pinprick of light coming through and suddenly the massive block of rock I was attached to seemed frail. I looked down between my feet to the desert floor far below and took a deep breath. Desert air tastes differently than mountain air. It has the sweet tang of sagebrush and of ancient earth. I took another breath and felt a little calmer.

I believe everyone has some place that is sacred to them. Mine is where the willows grow thick along the river, and the ravens perform acrobatics in the clear sky, their jet-black bodies just silhouettes. My sacred place is found where the pinions lay gnarled and beautiful in the canyons. And I feel at peace in the embrace of the ancient sandstone walls while hanging over the desert.

I make micro adjustments on the rope as my dad continues to climb. My thoughts drifting miles away, flying across the dry plains, winding up through the rocky arroyos, alighting briefly on a cottonwood tree, kissing its bark and restlessly moving on. Everything is as it should be out here. No hypocrisy exists in a place where every day is filled with harmony and the flow of natural, beautiful life. I feel so much closer to the world when life is simple: no cars, iPods, schedule to maintain or emails to answer. Here it is just the effortless joy of living. A place where all that exists is the here and now. Presently that is made up of the rock beneath me and the rope in my hands.

I feel the top is near before I actually see it. As I pull myself through the last few moves, my legs are shaking, and I take a moment to be grateful for having made it up here harmoniously. My dad and I mess around on the tip of the spire in order to give our muscles a break and enjoy the sun before we repel off the edge. I found a hideous Halloween mask someone had shoved into a crevice and creep up on my dad wearing it. We jump around and laugh, giddy at the success of the climb. He had lead other people up Castleton before but this was my first time up, and I felt like the Queen of the World.

We signed our names in the register and scribbled down a passage from the Bible that seemed appropriate, “Blessed are the eyes that see what I see.” And with that we lowered ourselves of the edge, and were gone. Just an imprint of a memory left on the sandstone to last eternity.

Sometimes I find that flipping through the images of the past that fill my memory is a very gratifying thing. It is so easy to get caught up in the future and what may potentially be, that I forget what has already come. So often I become listless and just float aimlessly through the days feeling like life has inched it’s way into the slow lane, and then I spot a picture or smell something that reminds me of that one time when…

Your probably wondering where all of this is going, and I was really just trying to find an interesting way to introduce an essay I wrote recently on a trip my family took a couple of years back. Three, almost four years ago my family hiked 3,000 miles from Canada to Mexico and I chose to write about that life changing experience for my colleges essays (which I finally submitted this week!). It is my greatest and maybe slightly vain hope that the people in college admissions will understand how much that trip means to me and how much it changed my life for the better.

So here is the infamous essay I have now been rambling on about for a little too long.

I looked down the jagged rift of our continent unaware that it would consume my world one moment at a time. Slowly eating away at everything I thought I knew, it left in its wake a new, strong girl – one I had not known before.

Three years ago my family left all that we knew to hike The Continental Divide Trail (CDT) from Canada to Mexico. It took us six months to cover the three thousand miles that run along the spine of the Rockies. Life fell into a rhythm on that long trail. The miles slipped by under our worn boot treads as the mountains rose unendingly around us. Growth in my character occurred in almost imperceptible ways. But three key changes built up over the six months and looking back now I hardly recognize the young girl that set out on the CDT who knew little of who she was or what she had to offer.

First, after living in a tent with my family for an extended period of time I became acutely aware of how much my actions affected them. I realized that I was a crucial member of our expedition and that I could, through my thoughts and actions, make it or break it for not only myself but for my family as well. Through trial and error I learned to be a supportive, positive, and constructive member of the trip and our family. Things weren’t always easy out on the trail, but the memories where I contributed to the harmony, such as hiking a ridge line at dusk engaging my dad in deep conversation at the end of a long day, far outweigh those times laced with discord.

Second, as my knowledge of the surrounding land grew so did my understanding of myself. I have always enjoyed a good challenge in life, but walking the CDT was beyond anything I thought I could do. By staying in the present moment and sticking with it one step at a time I discovered that I am not one to easily give up on something. It wasn’t stubbornness; it was a moment-by-moment expression of strength that led to completion. I understand there are times when I may not be able to complete something, but after walking across the Mexican border I know now much more about the inner strength that brings something of magnitude to successful completion.

Lastly, I came to see that laughter is the music of the heart. When you spend six months camping with the bugs and smelling like you crawled out of a cave you learn to laugh a lot. I had to learn to laugh at myself. I did some ridiculous things and it did me no good to be grumpy about them (I got my nickname “Kickapoo” from continuously stepping into cow pies in my bare feet). The trail became for me a lesson in humility and humor. Laughter has the power to heal. It brought my family together after long days on the trail. I always felt when laughter reached our eyes sitting around the campfire that it was our code for, “I love you.”

People often ask me, “Was it worth it?”
To have discovered myself as a young woman with inner strength, whose joy can make a difference and who has something to give to a community, was worth every blister, every tear, every doubt. The mountains filled me with a song. Yes, it was worth it.

Isn’t a strange thing how sometimes we wish we were someone else? I mean everything in life could be great. Christmas just went by, and it was grand and beautiful and full of love and yet the next day you see a photo or a new face or just get the feeling that you want to be somewhere or someone else. Does that happen to any of you? I feel that way sometimes, in fact (as I am sure you have figured out), I feel that way right now. Your probably wondering what brought on this bout of longing, and the answer really is quite simple, I saw a picture on facebook and poof(!) I was suddenly wishing to be elsewhere, to live a different life style, to simply be different. Which in reality seems quite odd, seeing as how I live a great life, with some really wonderful adventures just around the corner, and I am to be quite frank, very in love with life. And yet here I am staring out the window longing for something that I have no business wanting.

It is a bit of a juxtoposition to compare riding on the beach in Wales, astride mammoth like Irish Cobs, to flying along La Playa de Muerte on fleet footed Mexican horses, and yet I am going to do so any way.

A few years back my mom and I attempted to fulfill her lifelong dream of riding on the beach, which we technically did. But it wasn’t quite what we had in mind. It was raining and we had been planning on surfing (if you are wondering who in their right mind think of surfing in march in Wales, it’s my dad) but the rain was like little frozen needles and the surf was crashing right onto the beach, which made us cringe so we nixed that idea. As we were driving back to Tenby we saw two people working out their thoroughbreds on the beach. Long, graceful, fast horses and a light bulb turned on, we could go riding!

We found a little place and mounted up on to rather fat horses along with about thirty other people. It was already starting to look like not quite the ideal ride but we were feeling optimistic. We wove our way through the hills down to a small cove, and I mean small. We rode in circles for the next hour or so; it was like being on a carousel. My horses’ hooves through mud at my moms face the whole time and we couldn’t ever get her horse to pass mine. We tried once and failed. Like I said not the fairytale ride along the beach.

Two days ago I swung into the saddle of a small bay gelding named Chappo. (The Spanish word equivalent to, Jiminy Cricket). My mom sat astride a beautiful dapple gray mare, Milagro. Milagro means miracle in English an appropriate name for this spunky little mare. When she was just six days old she was attacked by a pack of dogs, her mother was unable to protect her because she was tied and the little filly almost didn’t survive the ordeal. Her neck was covered in lumpy scares only noticeable if you touched her.

We clopped our way down a dusty road and out onto the beach. The pacific was a stunning deep blue, and dolphins greeted us with their acrobatics. There could not have been a more perfect day for riding. Our horses were impressive, the sand was deep and we could feel their legs plunge into the sand when we galloped, and yet they remained willing steeds and ran for us time and time again. I believe they enjoyed being out as much as we did.

I discovered early on that Chappo was not particularly fast at the get go, unlike Milagro who took off like a bullet. (We had been told that she often raced in, and won the local vaquero races in Todos Santos. I suppose it was only fair that my mom got the race horse after her lumbering beast in Wales, after all it was her dream). However I Chappo had a little more finesse in him and he could run harder longer than she could and I managed to win one of our many races that day. And to my mothers horror it was the one race that we caught on camera.

It’s hard to explain the feeling of freedom and exhilaration I get when riding horses. It is simply one of those things you have to experience for yourself. It may seem a little cliché but having the wind whip through my hair, and feel the muscles of a powerful animal ripple below me is my heaven on earth.

Chappo will be a horse who’s memory I will always hold close to my heart. I don’t know for sure (you would have to ask her yourself) but I bet that my mom feels the same way.

The colors of the rainbow were strung out before me in the form of sea kayaks and the tranquil water of the Sea of Cortez threw sunlight in every direction. I sat quietly in El Diablo Azul steering only with my foot pedals as I watched the coast of La Isla de Espiritu Santo float by. It was one of those moments where I felt at peace in the core of my being, one of those moments where I was immeasurably happy to be alive.

I found that sea kayaking often put me into that space, especially when I was somewhat apart from the group. Every once in a while I find something that paints my life in new and vibrant colors. Reminding me that I love the people around me. That I find joy in experiencing new things, new places and people, but most importantly that I value myself as a person. All the trash that builds up in my consciousness about what I think is important just gets erased. In this case it was literally washed away by the sea, and all that was left were the things I truly value in my life.

Like, who am I being today? Am I expressing compassion, integrity, humility, curiosity, and joy? Have I put myself on my growing edge? What am I focusing on today, the petty or the important? Or am I allowing the vortex of useless thoughts to flow unmonitored through my mind?

Paddling my kayak through gentle swells, in and out of harbors, with the hot sun searing my shoulders and making the cockpit of my boat into a sweltering, rank, sauna could have been monotonous. Instead it reminded me that there are no ordinary moments. Fish teemed below me, darting in and out of the coral formations. Ospreys screamed overhead and seagulls honked in an offended tone when I got too close. Manta Rays could sometimes be seen leaping out of the water, and always there was a friendly face nearby lost in his or hers own thoughts as they too navigated the sea.

However the times I was too far out to see the fish or for the birds to fly overhead and no big mysterious creatures were jumping out of the depths, those moments too held their grace and peace. I am learning that life doesn’t have to be moving at a rapid pace to be beautiful. I am content with sitting in my kayak and being lulled by the gentle rock of the ocean. Both literally and figuratively.

I hope to remember now that I have been thrust back into the shark tank of technology that life is complete, gratifying and beautiful at a slow pace. I hope to remember that I can be content drifting along in a kayak. I am not letting life pass me by. I am simply changing the lens through which I view it. I much prefer this alternate view, it seems to capture more of the complete picture. Presenting me with a clearer and more illuminated final product.

Despite some similarities, I’ve been learning that surfing and snowboarding are really nothing alike.
Having a wave come roaring at me like a freight train with an attitude is just not the same as deciding it’s time to stand up and make my way down a pleasant, snow covered slope.Think about this: I did some calculations with our physics teacher and he and I determined that on average, the waves we were in were about 1500 cfs or cubic feet moving by any given point per second. Each cubic foot weights 64 pounds! That is a lot of force headed at a small and insignificant person (like me) clutching a surfboard.

Unlike snowboarding where you get to ride a lift up to the top of the mountain, you have to work to get out to the waves. It’s no small matter to battle the tide pulling your body in every which direction, drag your surfboard, not swallow a gallon of ocean water, AND make your way out into the surf. Waves have a tendency of breaking on top of my head and sweeping me back ten to fifteen feet. It is quite the process.

It was actually pretty simple to catch a wave once I was out there and committed to it. The hard part was standing up. White, frothy, angry ocean tumbled around me on every side, and the thought of uprooting my balance seemed slightly suicidal. My surfboard wobbled under me as I tentatively thrust leading foot forward.
(For me it’s my left, another similarity between surfing and snowboarding). Then, with gritted teeth and a prayer resting on my chapped and salty lips, I inched my second foot forward and into position. Keep in mind, my hands are still firmly clamped to the board, my knuckles white. It felt like wrenching a child away from its mother when I let go – terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

If I was lucky I got to ride the wave all the way into the shallows, feeling like a knight in shining armor, come back from slaying the dragon. However if I wasn’t so lucky, I realized I was a goner and gave myself up to the wave as it enveloped me. It thrust me down in a melee of sand and frustration. And just when I thought the ride was finally over and I would be graced with sunshine and oxygen once more, my leash would go taught as my board got claimed by the surf. And off I would go again, bumping my way along the sand, until finally, blessedly, I would come to a stop. I poked my head out of the water and peered through the mat of tangled gnarled hair hanging in front of my eyes to see if anyone saw that.To my relief I realized that half my friends had just experienced the same thing.
And yet we trudged our way back out into deeper water, with the hopes that maybe the next ride would be better. We were as persistent as salmon.

Surfing does that to you. It throws you around, half drowns you, fills your eyes with salt, and simultaneously enchants you. Those 30 seconds of glory are alluring, and I headed out time and time again, determined to catch that perfect wave. Lucky for me the ocean was complying and sent that wave my way.

It was the last wave of the day, and I wanted to catch just one decent one into shore. I could see a swell coming in off the point, and so I directed my board towards the beach and began to slowly paddle, glancing over my shoulder every so often to see if it was coming. I was slightly confused when my board began moving on its own. The water around me was still green. The wave had yet to break and I was on it, in perfect position to get that perfect wave.
I stood up with out even thinking about it and glanced over at Ryan to see if he was experiencing the same wonderful thing I was. He too was up. Miraculously we managed to stay on the wave as it broke around us. Our immediate landscape changed from green to white. As the nose of my board dug into the sand on shore I could not have been happier. I had caught my perfect wave! Exhilaration doesn’t quite encapsulate how I felt. I was bubbling, full of joy and laughter.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the ocean has a business plan: It dishes out just enough excitement and joy to get its customers to come back time and time again seeking that wave.